Η ζωή ενός ταπεινού, αλλά ουχί ταπεινόφρονος, συλλέκτη

 

Η ζωή ενός ταπεινού, αλλά ουχί ταπεινόφρονος, συλλέκτη.

από την Έλενα Βοσνάκη

Μια φορά κι έναν καιρό ζούσε ένας άνθρωπας. Με τα καλά του και με τα κακά του, και με τις αδυναμίες και τα τρωτά που όλοι οι άνθρώπες έχουν από κτίσεως Εδέμ και δώθε. Εμείς.

Μία πρωία που τα πουλάκια κελαηδούσαν ιδιαίτερα εύηχα κι η πλάση υποσχόταν είτε την μαγική Εδέμ ξανά από την αρχή, ή την τέλεια καταιγίδα μετά από άμετρο πόνο, ο άνθρωπας τέντωσε την πιασμένη του ραχοκοκκαλιά και πιάστηκε από το πρώτο πράγμα που κύλισε σαν βάλσαμο στις πληγές του ή σαν λόγια ερωτευμένου στ'αυτιά του. Θες ήταν μια Ducati σε θεϊκά μπεζόχρυσα καμπύλα κυβικά που στραφτάλιζαν κάτω από τον ήλιο, θες ήταν ένα κόμικ με ένα τυπά που πυροβολούσε γρηγορότερα κι απ'την σκιά του που του'κλεισε το μάτι μαγκιόρικα, θες ήταν ένα ελιξίριο μέσα σε ένα μυστηριώδες μπουκάλι που ξεπρόβαλλε σαν το τζίνι, με κάθε εισπνοή υποσχόμενο όχι τρεις επιθυμίες, αλλά χίλιους και τρεις σεβντάδες με ένα φσσσσς!

Μικρή σημασία έχει τι έπιασε τον άνθρωπα από τα πέτα. Τον έπιασε πάντως κι εκείνος άκουσε. Αφουγκράστηκε τον παλμό και μέθυσε. Και είπε "εδώ είμαστε γιαβρί μου!". Έπαθε έναν έρωτα όλο τρέλλα. Νόμισε πως στο μάθεμα του έρωτα η επαναληπτικότητα θα τροφοδοτήσει την αγάπη του ως τα ουράνια. Να γίνει σκάλα να πιάσει τον θεό και να τον φέρει τούμπα και να του πει "δεν στά'πανε καλά κι έλα εδώ να δεις το μεγαλείο".

Ζούσε έτσι ηδονικά κι υπερβατικά για κάμποσο διάστημα. Ώσπου να στραγγίξει το ελιξίριο από ένα, δύο, τρία μεθυστικά μπουκάλια πανομοιότυπα αδερφάκια που στέκονταν σούζα στην εταζέρα ψιθυρίζοντας λόγια απορίας τα βράδια αναμεταξύ τους. "Τι είναι αυτό που το λένε αγάπη; Κανένα στόμα δεν το'βρε και δεν το'πε ακόμα". Όπως λέει και το παλιό το άσμα.

Ώσπου ένα απόγευμα ένα άλλο ελιξίριο βρέθηκε να τους συντροφεύει στην εταζέρα και η λαλιά τους τούς κόπηκε μαχαίρι.

Αυτό ήταν! Ένας παρείσακτος. Ένας σπιούνος. Ένας κουΐσλινγκ είχε παρεισφρύσει στις τάξεις τους. Έπρεπε να το περιμένουν... Τίποτα δεν διαρκεί για πάντα κι ο έρωτας γιατροπορεύεται με έρωτα.

Το νέο αρωματικό ελιξίριο δεν είχε τις χάρες του παλιού. Όχι. Είχε όμως έναν αέρα. Μια αύρα. Έναν κόμψο που διέφευγε του γνώριμου. Ήταν αυτό που άρπιζε στις μελωδίες των σειρήνων που έλεγαν "έεεεεελα, έεεεεελα μαζί μας άνθρωπα, ζεις για να δοκιμάζεις, πώς θα ξέρεις ποιά ξηρά είναι η πιο πράσινη αν δεν τις έχεις δοκιμάσει όλες; έεεεεεελα, έεεελα στον παφλασμό των κυμάτων κι αφέσου να σε νανουρίσουμε στην αρωματική μας αγκαλιά". Αυτά έλεγε το μπουκαλάκι το νέο λυγώντας τον μακρύ λαιμό του με νάζι και μ' αποθυμιά. Κι η μυρωδιά, το άρωμα, σαν σε αμπάρι σε παλιό σκαρί γεμάτο με όλα τα βάλσαμα της υδρογείου κι ακόμα παραπέρα...

Κι ο άνθρωπας υπέκυψε γιατί τι άνθρωπας θα ήταν αν δεν υπέκυπτε άλλωστε.

Κι ο κήπος των πρωτόπλαστων απομακρυνόταν σαν τα δέντρα του Ταντάλου. Κι η υπόσχεση για πλήρωση και για κορεσμό απομακρυνόταν με κάθε νέο μπουκαλάκι άρωμα. Κάθε νέο απόκτημα είχε την ηδονική γητειά στα χείλη του υπεσχημένη για ευμορφιά, για χάρη, για την μοναδική την ατελεύτητη την αγάπη την θεία που ξεχειλίζει από τους ουρανούς και φέρνει πίσω τα μικράτα, τις αναμνήσεις μας: τους αγαπημένους, τις πρώτες μας μελαγχολίες και τα πρώτα μας φιλιά, τον φίλο μας τον Σοφοκλή που έφυγε Αυστραλία και μήτε που τον ξανάδαμε, τα εφηβικά τα πάρτυ στην παραλιακή, τα άγρια ροκ και τους μπαξέδες που μοσχοβολούσαν γιασεμί, την καθηγήτρια με το μωβ μαλλί και το νύχι το μακρύ που μύριζε φαρμακίλα, τα πρώτα λεφτά που τά'στρωσε ψυγείο ν'αγοράσει, τα λάστιχα που λιώνανε στην εθνική τα χιλιόμετρα να καταπίνουν προς έναν προορισμό καινούργιο...

Κάθε μπουκαλάκι μια υπόσχεση. Κάθε μπουκαλάκι και μια διάψευση. Κάθε μπουκαλάκι ένας έρωτας και μια εφήμερη πατρίδα που όλο ξεμακραίνει.

Γιατί φεύγει όσο το κυνηγάω;

Και στο κυνήγι αυτό ήρθε μια μέρα του άνθρωπα ο κορεσμός και η θλίψη. Ακόμα και τα ζώα θλίβονται μετά την συνουσία. Κι άφησε τα μπουκαλάκια που ως τότε τα ξεσκόνιζε και τα περιποιούνταν να πιάσουν σκόνη και να μείνουν αγιάτρευτα σε ένα ανήλιαγο μπουντρούμι. "Μην μου μιλάτε για καλοκαίρια και χειμώνες. Μην φέρνετε άλλο στο νου μου όσα χαθήκαν πια για πάντα.", σκέφτηκε κι ίσως ψιθύρισε κάποια στιγμή σηκώνοντας τα κουτιά στο πατάρι.

Και έθαψε την εφηβεία του και την νεότητά του, και την πένθησε όπως αρμόζει σε τέτοια πράγματα να πενθούνται.

Κι έπειτα μια άλλη πρωία, πολύ καιρό μετά, αλλά πολύ, που ήταν δροσερή κι είχαν όλα λουστεί στο καθάριο νερό της βραδινής μπόρας, κι όλα στραφτάλιζαν με κείνη την πράσινη αιχμηρή διαύγεια που έχουν τα εγγλέζικα καλοκαίρια, ξύπνησε ο άνθρωπας και του έλειψε εκείνο το κελαρυστό το γέλιο που έκανε όταν ο ήχος του φφφφφςςςς χτυπούσε στο λαιμό και στο στέρνο. Του έλειψε, όπως του χαροκαμένου που έχει πια πάρει απόφαση πως άλλη ζωή δεν έχει. Και παίρνει απόφαση να ζήσει.

Και σηκώθηκε κριτς κρατς σκουριασμένος ο άνθρωπας και θυμήθηκε τ'αρώματα στο πατάρι. Και τις γητειές τους. Και νοστάλγησε και την πρώτη του την αγάπη που δεν ξεχνιέται ποτέ. Και την αναζήτησε σε άλλα χέρια. Σε άλλες αγκαλιές. Και ερωτεύτηκε και πάλι από την αρχή. Και αυτή την φορά το πήρε αλλιώς κι αλλιώτικα και πασαλιμανιώτικα για να γλυτώσει την λογική του την μισή. Κι είπε: "Ως εδώ και θα πορευθώ σε τούτη την ζωή με λίγα αλλά αληθινά. Μακριά από μένα οι σειρήνες και οι Λαιστρυγόνες και η Κίρκη με τα φαρμάκια της. Καπνό θα δω από της καλύβης μου την τίμια καμινάδα". Και επέστρεψε.

Για να βρει την Πηνελόπη αλλαγμένη. Μαδημένη. Με χέρια πόδια να της λείπουν από τις αλλαγές. Τις αναμνήσεις να μην μπορούν να βρουν το πρώτερο το σχήμα και να πασχίζει να τους δώσει μορφή σαν άλλοτε...

Όμως άλλοτε δεν έχει πια. Και ο Οδυσσέας αναγκαστικά παίρνει το κουπί* και ψάχνει την γη που δεν θα το αναγνωρίσουν ως κουπί και θα το πούνε λυχνιστήρι. Κι εκεί θα ζήσει το υπόλοιπο της ζωής του ξανά σαν άλλος, σε ένα ατέλειωτο ταξίδι στις αισθήσεις και στις εμπειρίες. Στα αρώματα της ψυχής του.

___________________________________________________________

*Από την γνωστή ιστορία του Οδυσσέα που μετά την μνηστηροφονία ξεκινάει για νέες περιπέτειες με τον κουπί στον ώμο όπως του παρήγγειλαν οι θεοί.

Και με προσωπικό θαυμασμό στο ποίημα:

Ποιος είδε ψάρι στο βουνό και θάλασσα σπαρμένη ;
Ένα κουπί ποιος φύτεψε σε θερισμένο κάμπο ;
Πουλιά το βλέπουν στεριανά και το περνούν για σκιάχτρο.
Πάνε δειλά ’πο πιο κοντά, το λένε λιχνιστήρι.
Κι ένας αετός που πέρναγε τον πιάσανε τα γέλια.
Καλά το είπατε πουλιά πως είναι λυχνιστήρι.
Λιχνίζει κύματ’ αρμυρά στ’ αλώνια του πελάγου.
Πίσω να πάει τ’ άχερο μπροστά ο καρπός να πέσει,
Πίσω να παν μέρες πικρές, μπροστά να δεις πατρίδα.
Τ’ ονοματίζουνε κι αλλιώς : του καραβιού φτερούγα.
Κι όσοι θαλασσοδέρνονται το λεν δεξί τους χέρι.
Μ’ αυτός που τό ’φερ’ ώς εδώ στον ώμο κουβαλώντας,
Όσο μπορούσε πιο μακριά ’π’ τη θάλασσα τη χέρσα,
Και τό ’μπηξε βαθιά σε γης π’ αδιάκοπα γεννάει,
Το λέει σταυρό στο μνήμα του : εκεί να τόνε θάψουν.

Ο νερόμυλος, 1998

{Διονύσης Μενίδης "Σπουδή Θανάτου"}

 

Perfume as a Personal Story: the Auteur Viewpoint

Lucien François, famous journalist and critic of the 1920s, used to say about perfumers that they are mirage creators, constructors of a unique world, of a piece of paradise. We, perfumephiles, can certainly read those lines and nod our heads sympathetically, even at the distance of a century between us.

via

Back then perfume makers, perfumers themselves as well as perfume company directors such as François Coty or Jean François Houbigant prior to him, were surrounded by a halo of celebrity, which—although abandoned for a great part of the 20th century—has recently been revived thanks to the resurgence of the perfumer-star or—more intellectually—auteur du parfum, a term which creates its own connotations.

Perfumery became tied to fashion design in the early 20th century,  losing its apothecary axis of individualised attention to the client, opting for a more uniform product. Practices changed with the advent of World War II and the pacing up of the industry, speeding its metamorphosis into a commercial vehicle, meant a disruption of the exclusive perfumer attached to a single firm. New constraints, such as the procurance of raw materials or cost studies shifted perfumery into a web of technical support which necessitated bigger firms with the necessary equipment, staff and know how instead of the "one-man show" of days of yore. Perfumery became an industry, heavy industry for some countries such as France and the USA, but it also lost something of that momentous revelation that was at the core of previous creations. From "directive" and cutting out a path for other fashions, perfumery assimilated the cultural milieu seeking to comply to the consumer instead, to heed to sociological needs, to anticipate its desires instead of creating them in the first place so as to ensure growth and sales. Marketing studies attended to the most minutiae variations in public's tastes.

Perfume sought to create a "look," a personality for the wearer, to reflect a specific mold, often amalgamating the one of the brand with the one of the wearer; designer brands especially continue to be very sensitive into having their perfumed products reflect their aesthetic principles first shown on the catwalk. This consolidated the notion of the "signature scent" for the masses, but it also guaranteed brand loyalty; there were the Chanel followers, the Dior acolytes, the Yves Saint Laurent fans...

In a relance that harkens back to the Cahiers du Cinema concept of "auteur," authentic perfume creators (be it perfumers themselves or art directors such as Serge Lutens or Frederic Malle) re-establish their role into directing the public instead of being directed by the market, and consolidate their authorship. Perfumers who have really thought out their craft and have exalted it into the level of art, such as Jean Claude Ellena displays in his book Diary of a Nose, approve of the term "auteur du parfum," as their journey is parallel to that of a writer. It also poses the same ethical issues: authorship means intellectual property rights.

via

A fragrance as an intellectual work means the return of creativity; the imperceptible twists in a generic, crowd-pleasing formula which could create a million similar, homogenized scents—like pasteurized milk in different cartons—is unacceptable by this standard. Houses are increasingly returning to engaging a single "nose" for their creations: Chanel already had a steady with Jacques Polge and Guerlain with Jean Paul Guerlain, but Patou perfumes managed to effortlessly pass from Jean Kerléo to Jean-Michel Duriez and Hermès to earn Jean Claude Ellena. L'Artisan Parfumeur has increasingly used Bertrand Duchaufour, Lutens has an almost unbreakable bond with Chris Sheldrake.


Modern creators offer a perfume for an occasion, a perfume for a specific mood, be it joyous (Le Temps d'une fête), innocent (La Chasse aux papillons), contemplative (Angéliques sous la pluie), mystical (Avignon) or wistful (Douce Amère), a scent for a man's or a woman's persona rather than personality, as in role-playing, and thus they re-connect with the momentous revelation that fragrance used to mean to the awe-receptive audiences of the late 19th and early 20th century.

Whiffs of Heaven and of Hell: The Scents of Sanctity and of the Devil, a Historical Exposition of Myth and Reality

I have been having a bit of trouble with putting in comments lately, Blogger acting up or something, so please excuse my delay in responding to you. I hope the problem gets fixed quickly.
Meanwhile I have published two of my most interesting, if I say so myself, articles involving a controversial topic that intermingles religion, culture, history, myth and ever present smells and fragrances. Not everything is coming up roses, but some things apparently are?

One if called A Saintly Aroma: Scents of Heaven, linked here, and its companion is called A Diabolical Whiff: Scents of Hell, linked on this link.

I hope that you will enjoy them as much as I enjoyed myself while researching and writing them. As always, please free to comment and agree/disagree either here or there.

Courtesans, Luxury & Bourgeoisie in Mid-19th Century Paris: Status in Honore de Balzac's 'Cousin Bette'

"Marneffe, destroyed by the debaucheries peculiar to great capital cities, described by the Roman poets but for which our modern sense of decency has no name, had become as hideous as a wax anatomical model. But this walking specimen of disease, dressed in fine cloth, was supported on spindle-sharks clad in elegant trousers. His shriveled chest was clothed in perfumed white linen, and musk smothered the fetid odors of human decay."

The sanitation of 19th century European cities meant that scent had lost its prophylactic symbolism rampant in centuries before, when it was supposed to chase away miasmata, according to social historian Alain Corbin, and yet the masking action of scent had not yet become obsolete, as revealed by the above passage from Cousin Bette (La cousine Bette).

The syphilis-stricken Monsieur Marneffe, rotting from the inside out, is presented as outwardly perfectly fitting his bourgeois respectability. His presentation also belies the moral rot that mangles his heart; he pimps his wife, Valérie Marneffe, to ascend socially from clerk in the War ministry to head floor manager, and to put his plan into motion, he pimps her (or encourages her dubious dalliances) not to one but to four men at the same time.

Honoré de Balzac, that most painter-like of all social surgeon novelists this side of Charles Dickens and Jane Austen, delivers one of his most astonishing portraits of the bourgeoisie and the emergence of a novel world under the Louis Philippe reign, the July Monarchy, in Cousin Bette. It is indeed "one of the finest of my finest works" as the author wrote at the time in a letter addressed to his mistress Madame Henska.

His 1846 answer to Eugène Sue's tremendous cultural imprint (le roman feuilleton titled Les Mystères de Paris) reprises the themes of good & evil, poor & rich, as represented by characters like the morally flawed Marneffe pair, the poor and conniving seamstress that is the eponymous "cousin Bette" (i.e. Lisbeth Fischer), the courtesans Josépha, Jenny Cadine and Carabine, the exile artist Steinbock, the struggling Hulot family and the Crevel tradesman, the latter representative of the nouveaux riches. Balzac does so with such minutiae detail throughout, furnishing the contemporary setting of 1840s Paris, that he makes Cousin Bette a fascinating social and economical tapestry of the era.

It is enough to consider that Louis Philippe was addressed as "King of the French", rather than as "King of France", thus signaling a break with L'Ancien Régime and the embracing of the nascent bourgeoisie.

Perhaps of most interest to these pages is the accurate reflection of the emergence of this new stratification of society which relies on money earned in the reappearing trades of luxury after the hiatus following the 1789 Revolution; this time, not designed by minister Colbert to appeal to the aristocracy or by the Emperor Napoléon to gild his regime, but approachable to and originating from the middle classes.

Central to the plot, the Hulot family relies on previous capital acquired via Empire wages to Baron Hector Hulot, the tragic protagonist fighting with his sexual obsession, War Ministry positions won on the repute of his former glories, lawyer wages on behalf of his son Victorin, insurance policies as well as signed bills of exchange and loans. On the other hand, the equally central and plot-driving Monsieur Crevel, young Hulot's father-in-law and Hector's wife Adeline's suitor in the very opening of the novel, is a retired perfumer.

Easily the richest  man in the microcosmos of Cousin Bette, Crevel's bourgeois status is contrasted to the Hulot and even the Marneffe households, such is his relative crassness. To make a comparison, Hector Hulot makes 25,000 francs a year via his salary, and is in dire need of 200,000 francs to marry his daughter Hortense. "Respectability...begins at 50,000 francs of annual unearned income" Valerie Marneffe, an indirect nouveau riche, declares at some point. A Parisian student would survive with the bare minimum of 1,200 francs a year. The gap with the emerging class is huge. Retired perfumer Crevel starts with 2 million francs in capital in 1838 affording him an annual income of 80,000 francs. By 1843, when Crevel marries the freshly widowed Valérie Marneffe, his fortune must have risen still, as the property he buys alone costs 3 million francs, not to mention costs of living and the riches showered for years on Madame Marneffe. Not only has his trade earned him monetary advantages beyond everyone else, he has been a deputy mayor, captain in the National Guard and Chevalier of the Legion of Honor.

It is not said what perfumes he composed and sold at La Reine des Roses, his shop situated on the Rue Saint-Honore, the newly fashionable district of the bourgeoisie-aimed "luxury" trades (and the footing of many luxury houses to this day catering to the wealthy). The Almanach-Bottin du Commerce cites 151 perfume houses in 1840, a mere 6 years before the writing and publication of Cousin Bette.

Seeing as Crevel has close contact (and in fact rivals over) the courtesans du jour, like the Jewess Opera singer Josépha, the tart with a heart of gold as it transpires later in the novel, the "number of pretty women reeking of patchouli" as Balzac puts it, gathered at her previous lodgings in the Rue Chauchet, could be wearing his products.


Josepha's new house, in the Rue de la Ville-d'-Eveque, given her by the powerful Duc d'Hérouville, merits a description worthy of the nouveaux riches in all their luxuria-showing fashion.

"Having asked for the number of the house, the Baron took a milord and alighted at one of those pretty modern houses with double doors where everything, even the gas lamps at the entrance, proclaims luxury."

But not only the courtesans profit from the aromatic and cosmetic preparations furnished by houses like that of the fictional Crevel, and the very real ones by the names of Guerlain, Houbigant , L.T. Piver, Charles Gallet, Pinaud, Raynaud and the like. Many of them had the modest beginnings of Crevel; Antonin Raynaud, the son of a butcher in Grasse, became a partner in the Legrand perfumery and took over a short 3 years later. Most gained similar advantages thanks to their social status afforded them by their trade. Alphonse-Honoré Piver was knighted in 1867 and became an officer in 1878, Aimé Guerlain was knighted in 1892. [1] These perfumers promoted their names as brands, enhancing the value of their wares, taking advantage of their enhanced social standing and thus placing a symbolic value on their products; the modern definition of luxury.

Lisbeth (Bette) Fischer is transformed from ugly and insignificant, bitter spinster by her ally in evil, madame Marneffe, via the synergy of what the luxury trades of mid-19th century Paris could afford her. In fact the broadening of perfume's and other luxurious products "social diffusion invites questions about perfume's identification at that time as a luxury product" [2].

"A revolutionary change had taken place in Cousin Bette. Valérie, who had insisted on choosing the old maid's clothes, had profited greatly from it.
This strange woman, her slender figure now properly corseted, used bandoline lotion for her well-smoothed hair, accepted her dresses as the dressmaker delivered them, and wore elegant little boots and grey silk stockings which were, moreover, included in the tradesmen's bills to Valerie and paid for by whoever was entitled to settle them."

The role of added wiles reprises erotic quota in the hands of the duplicitous Valérie Marneffe.

"Out of the corner of her eye and in the mirror, she had been watching the expression on Monte's face; she thought that in his pallor she saw signs of the weakness which makes such strong men captive to the fascination of women. She took him by the hand, going so close to him that he could smell those powerful, beloved perfumes that intoxicate men in love. And feeling his heart beat faster, she looked at him reproachfully."

Valérie Marneffe, the married woman who destroys the Hulot family with her "kept woman" ways, exchanging favors of a sexual nature for increasing sums of money, effectively bleeding Hector Hulot dry, has only ever been enticed sentimentally by the Brazilian Baron Montès who will ultimately prove her nemesis. And yet, when caught in an illicit and shameful tryst by him with another young man not her husband, she uses her courtesan wiles to gain footing into Montès's heart again. Such is her erotic power and the outward respectability of "the bourgeois married woman" that she seems to gain momentum for a while. Like the French author mentions elsewhere:

"Hortense was a lovely morsel of flesh, as Valerie said to Lisbeth, but Madame Marneffe had a spirited demeanor and the piquancy of vice. Devotion like Hortense's is a feeling that a husband thinks is his due. [...] A disdainful woman, above all a dangerous woman, stimulates curiosity, as spices enhance the flavor of good food."

The relative anonymity with which the perfumes and other luxury products are recycled in Cousin Bette are completely integrated into the budding shift happening in the market. The differentiation of products once sold as commodities and slowly turned into "brands" in the 1860s ~and more markedly in the 1880s and 1890s thanks to the mechanization and the introduction of synthetic compounds~ shifted the artisanal value of the raw materials into a symbolic value placed on a product whose production cost had significantly decreased.
Contrary to the art world, in which the destruction of all molds and models for the statuettes, figures and sculptures meant the uniqueness and originality of the purchased goods, "the last word in modern luxury" as Balzac mentions, the world of cosmetic preparations and perfumes has been irrevocably democratized. The next major step in this course will happen in the beginning of the 20th century with François Coty.


[1] [2] Business History Review 85 (summer 2011), Eugenie Briot. Harvard College ISSN 0007-6805; 2044-768X (web)

The Tyranny of Cleaner Living

I was talking to someone I hadn't seen for a while the other day. "This will give you cancer" she mentioned with an ominous forefinger referring to my perfume use. I felt like I was a 6 year old in elementary school, taught about the bad effects of picking my nose and tasting the boogers. It made no sense, though it appeared like it did. She was also misusing a lot of the words we hear brandished a lot in similar discussions: "chemicals" (hey, everything is chemical, including H2O), "nasties" (some of them do keep your products from rotting), "toxic" (well...).

I try to be an inquisitive person, rather than an argumentative one, though it often comes across like I am argumentative (all right, I might be just a bit), so instead of trying to win an argument with my long-lost friend I probed her with more questions to understand the stem of her apprehension and panic towards fragrance. Turns out she was apprehensive and panicked about a lot of  other things too, not just perfumes. Foodstuff, livestock, drugs sold at the chemist's, air pollution affecting her (nascent) asthma, whether her  skin would withstand the assaults of "chemicals" in just about anything sold over the counter, how her totally dropping the habit of the occasional fag with her infrequent drink when going out, once every three months, would result in gaining a pound or two, God forbid, how she would never again let a drop of alcohol pass her lips "because it creates fetus malformations", the fact that she had just bought a juicer to try to juice her organically grown carrots and alpha alpha sprouts, yada yada yada. My eyes would have glazed if my surprise wasn't written all over them like storm on a winter's day sky. What the hell had happened to the woman I knew?

via voicesofeastanglia.com

 This modern obsession with all things "natural" and "clean" isn't necessarily modern. It does always bring on shades of psychoanalytical anal fixation all the same: The idea of one's gut being full of accumulated dirt, a need to purge, the need for control, control on ones' self at first but soon expanding to include one's surroundings. There's a heap of masochism thrown into this controlling desire, where every deviation from the ideal (i.e. an unattainable standard of "clean") is considered a moral lapse for which one must atone through elaborate ritual. Enter the macrobiotic diets, the purging via detoxifying juices and coffee enemas, the tossing of anything remotely pleasurable and its substitution with unpalatable -and when you research it highly dubious- stuff such as rice crackers (rice crackers, man, can you think of anything more cardboard-tasting?!?), the ionisers in the office and the dehumidifiers at home, the eradication of bed bugs through ultra-expensive machinery using UV-radiation (why not just bring out the matresses out in the sun every week or so?), the elimination of anything paraben-containing from the bathroom shelf, the demonization of sedantary lifestyles and the condemnation of the occasional social glass of wine. It's exhausting. No doubt obsessive people derive so much pleasure out of it. It's like taking a massive crap; leaves you light-headed and out of focus for a while, forgetting about third world famine, war waged against people's free choice, rampant unemployment and the collapse of democracy as we know it. Yes, I can well see there's an inordinate amount of pleasure involved; but that doesn't mean I condone it or agree with it.

via https://blogs.monash.edu/presto/tag/clean-eating/

Maybe I'm not the target audience for this "product", because it IS a product, called "clean living". I see  (on the Net, not in real life, thank goodness) T-shirts with nonsese emblazoned on it such as "A clean living room is a happy living room". Come again? Or just look at Gwyneth Paltrow. She looks incredible, but somewhat unstable too, doesn't she? I wouldn't trust her with my offspring; she might try to give them rice crackers, for Pete's sake! When I peruse titles on Amazon selling clean living tips, the people on the cover are all invariably perfectly depilated, clean-combed, routinely in some variation of white and light blue or pink garment, with just the right tan and a whiter than white smile in a frozen "cheese" grimace. They make me shake my head, get convinced they're constipated and inwardly joke they're spanking each other on the butt for fun (something's got to give, right?). What's certain is they don't make me want to emulate them, like the advertisers and the lifestyle media battle to do, know what I mean?

Perfume is just the tip of the iceberg and my rant just a budding disconnect with the (misconstrued, I suppose?) Protestant morals that have swept over Europe and possibly the world thanks to the ill effects of previous policies. It's easy to target, because it seems frivolous and morally suspect (Isn't perfume routinely associated with sexual attraction and seduction?). It's also easy to place all the shortcomings of the modern world on the back of this little scapegoat, called perfume, and think that by ousting it out of the community, burdened with all our sins, we have escaped Nemesis and can go about our lives feeling much lighter as if we have taken a massive crap. Alas, as any classicist will tell you, things don't quite work out this way. Hubris is just around the corner.

Perfume Acting as a Time Capsule: Why We Will Forever Love What We Once Loved

It's an all too common observation with people I fragrance consult. "Tell me what perfumes you have enjoyed wearing in the past", I ask. They invariably reply with names of fragrances they wore when younger, like L'Air du Temps or Fidji or Dior's Farenheit; it varies. Young and older ones alike also love to reminiscence about things they loved in the turmoil of puberty, from Cacharel Loulou to CK one via Tatiana; I suppose it gives us a sense of nostalgia, a queer thrill of reliving a period of our lives when we were not so sure of certain things, innocent enough that we had faith before life bore its heavy blows crushing our dreams. Whether it was something cheap, brash or immature (Impulse body sprays anyone?) does not matter; the memory is there and the hold it has over our hearts reads like the delicious thrill we feel at the borderline segregating damnation from redemption. And because it is such a thin razor's edge, we continue our lives with a precarious, perverse pleasure derived from seeking for the elements we loved in every subsequent scent to be met, almost like a golden standard against which we judge everything that follows; the Mr.Darcy against which everyone else pales, the Heathcliff whose darkness embodies our secret yearnings, yearnings we have buried and mourned only on the surface. Yes, all too frequently the first fragrances we have loved remain our loves throughout our lives, unless perfume Nemesis -in the guise of allergens restrictions or business behemoths pennies-pinching- shutters the gilded foil and makes them unrecognizable. Only then can we continue to love them for what they once were; the seal of accepted, hard-earned maturity.

via indulgy.com

Contemplating what I just stated I realize "one's youth" is too restrictive. It's also rather inaccurate. "One's prime" is more like it when recalling a given fragrance with a pang of the heart. Shed a thought for my mother in law, for instance, who fondly associates with fragrances she wore in her mid-to-late 30s, because that's the time frame she held a glamorous job that involved international air travel, first class, all over the world. Or a good friend who wore  Gucci pour Homme (from 2003) in his 40s when courting his second wife who proved to be everything he had wished for the first time around. My first Serge Lutens bell jar was La Myrrhe and I was feeling on top of the world when I bought it; I still love it to bits.

Perfume itself is cyclical: like fashion (which famously can be so atrocious that it has to change every six months) it alters its key syntax to reflect a changing world with changing needs. This is why every decade of the 20th century has roughly had its own fragrance background, from the impressionistic scents of La Belle Epoque to the orientals of the 1920s (boosted by the success of Guerlain Shalimar), the advancement of floral aldehydic perfumes, the 1940s and 1950s feminine chypres deriving from the iconic Mitsouko, the hippie revolution with patchouli and musk, the career women of the 1980s with their strong aura of Poison, Obsession and Giorgio up till the 1990s and the watery ozonics exemplified by L'Eau d'Issey, Aqua di Gio and Light Blue and our current inundation of gourmand, sweet perfumes.
But even so generations remember what was the vogue in their formative years: The 40-somethings are still wearing Kenzo pour Homme from time to time and are crazy for Light Blue in the summer, whereas the 25-year-olds are all about the Coco Mademoiselle and Miss Dior (Cherie). The teenagers of today will come to form new associations, different from their elders.

In many ways perfume can act not only as an accurate reflection of the zeitgeist, but also as a time capsule. In fact, time capsule is the name of an actual fragrance, believe it or not. Such is the pull of the concept. No wonder advertising uses this technique, selling the past to the future, its referencing quality being retrospective. For every one of us a scent time capsule is deeply personal. Very often it not only includes the perfumes we have indulged in and felt elated in, but also the other scents we lived through: the stale pizza & fresh coffee brewing in the percolator that morning following a boozed out night waking up next to the object of our affection in our university years; the smell of the new apartment we came into with our first downpayment; the soft fur between the paws of a favorite pet now long gone; the nuzzling warmth of a baby's just slept jumper; the pleasure and the grief of lovemaking; the cold sickly chamber of a deathbed.

So indulge me, cast your mind back: Which are your own perfume time capsules? What period of your life do they capture or would you have liked to capture in something that can recall it for you on demand? I remember a glorious summer spent in the throes of young love, lapped by the waves of the Aegean, accompanied by Parfum d'Ete by Kenzo. The fragrance has since changed and the memory doesn't quite click. In the meantime my old bottle is drained empty, so I'm at a loss; this green floral didn't keep too well and old stock might therefore be rancid. Perfume by its own nature, you see, is destructive; once you spray it, the molecules have flown off their Pandora's box, they're dispersed, you simply can't put them back in. It shares with time that ephemeral, perishable quality which accounts for things of great beauty and great pain.

Fragrance Intertextuality: Homage or Creative Dialogue?

In Opera aperta, Umberto Eco argued that literary texts are fields of meaning, rather than strings of meaning. He proposed therefore that texts are open and internally dynamic, thus deeply engaging from a psychological point of view. Literature works repressing potential understanding to a single, unequivocal line are the least rewarding, according to this view, while those that are most open and most “active” between mind and society are the most lively ~and ultimately much more satisfying too! In my turn I am arguing that perfumes are not different than literature oeuvres in that scope and that in fact the elective affinities between them provide immense satisfaction of the cerebral as well as the sensory. And although the assessment of perfumes in terms of their psychological subtexts and their historical background is not uncommon, the study of their “language” and semiotics entering into the context of perfumery is less usual. To further this idea I should bring into the discussion a literary term: intertextuality!

Venus of the Rags, via fashionmedium.blogspot.com

Intertextuality is the shaping of texts' meanings by other texts. [A notion championed by post-structuralist Julia Kristeva’s semiotic, according to whom the emotional reach dwells in the fissures and prosody of language rather than in the denotative meanings of words. Therefore semiotics opposes the symbolic, which attaches meanings to words following a reasoning process]. Umberto Eco simply said: "books speak of other books”. Substitute with "art works" in general and you're there. It can therefore have a dual meaning: refer to an author’s transformation of a prior text into a new creation or to a reader’s referencing of one text in reading another. Do we interpret Joyce’s Ulysses as a modernist exploration of the novel, as a response to the epic tradition, as part of some other conversation, or as part of all of these conversations at once? Is Arturo Pérez-Reverte’s witty intertextual thriller El Club Dumas more enjoyable because it prompts us to revisit the French writer? And is there some degree of intellectual vanity at play, a flush of pride when you recognize an allusion? I am certain that there is!

When Homage Gains Momentum
If we consider perfume creation as authoring ~and indeed several perfumers and perfume enthusiasts consider it as such~ and if Süskind’s “Das Pafum” novel is full of intertextuality, then the theory could be applied in fragrances themselves as well in both its meanings. Just think of how many times we sense a perfume as homage to another one, usually a revered classic. We can find two prime examples of such a treatment in the F. Malle line: both L’eau d’hiver by Jean Claude Ellena and Dominique Ropion’s Une Fleur de Cassie are artful interpretations of a spermatic idea first explored in Guerlain’s Après L’Ondée (as is their own later marvel L’Heure Bleue!). The dialogue between the delicate cassie garlands of Guerlain’s classic with the fluffy cloud of L’Eau d’Hiver is soft-spoken and tender ~the undoubted modernity of the latter is sweeping its revolution under the rag: quiet but unshakeably there, the beginning of a new era. Une Fleur de Cassie, on the other hand, has more spirited one-liners with the Guerlain classic; injecting at once a carnal aspect (when there was miniscule before) and an increased intensity of the prime material. Whereas the archetype holds on to the heliotrope and aniseed to speak of the tentative rays of the sun coming up to fondle the branches, the modern candidate washes the landscape in saturated hues of deep vermillion. If we attenuate it into more distant allusions, we can reference Cologne Blanche by Dior as having a secondary dialogue with L’Eau d’Hiver and Caron’s Farnesiana being the old sage pre-empting Une Fleur de Cassie.

The allusion needs some getting to know, like conversationalists who have become acquainted and share common interests peripheral to those expected of them. Patricia de Nicolai’s Sacrebleu is an eavesdropper who can’t hold off injecting a witty quip with its mellow deliciousness or its very name. Alternatively think of the evolution of aldehydic fragrances ~ which ties them into an olfactory family but also references them into distinct personalities meeting at a posh tea-party of ladies who lunch. The whole game is here uttered in different fabric allusions: The iconic Chanel No.5  is clad in chic black crepe (but wears garters underneath) while her prettier, sweeter sister is showcasing her own ivory chiffon. They both talk spiritedly with cousins who don light merino-wool twin-sets in pastel hues, right out of a Douglas Shirk film: Le Dix by Balenciaga and Madame Rochas. Whereas the estranged aunt with the bombastic presence is sporting White Linen and talks about the new and improved alkaline soaps of the United States with a heavy accent. We could be almost forgiven for not noticing behind her the discreet and elegant debutante Iris Poudre and her twin Ferré by Ferré, clad in salmon organza (both by eloquent Pierre Bourdon), if it weren’t for the pang of sudden recognition that seeing all of them lined-up ignites!

via valerie6.myweb.uga.edu

It does not matter if the accord of oak moss and peach or plum denotes the synergy between moss, damascones or undecalactone: the alliance is always representative of the golden nectar off a woman’s skin or the buoyancy of a glamorous epoch. From the wistful Mitsouko to the exuberant Rochas Femme to the contemporary Jubilation 25 by Amouage one cannot fail to hear the grandeur reverberating though their throaty tunes; but it wouldn’t be far off to claim that segments of that tale are surfacing in unlikely candidates such as Eau d’Hermès and Cartier’s Declaration.

Intertextuality in the Eye of the Beholder
Linda Hutcheon however argues that excessive interpretation through this line of thinking obscures the role of the author, because intertextuality is often "in the eye of the beholder", not necessarily entailing the communicator's intentions. She prefers the term “parody”, based on the notion that the latter always features an author who actively encodes a text as an imitation with critical difference. As semiotic is closely related to the infantile pre-Oedipal stage (as elaborated by Freud as well as Lacan), its subconscious effect is more impressed into our memory than the conscious, logical attributions which we place through knowledge and rhyme. Something mystically whispers in our ear that perfumer Maurice Roucel transports the problematic of salty, warm, pulsating skin from Musc Ravageur into L by Lolita Lempicka, L’Instant by Guerlain and Le Labo’s Labdanum 18 all the way through the stripped to its earthier, almost bulby notes of Dans tes Bras for F.Malle. Even if we didn’t know those were all composed by the same “nose” we might feel the generous, sensuous touch of the author’s signature having them converse. But does the author, Roucel in this case, intend a sense of parody, in the context above explained?

Conversations in the Horizontal and Vertical Planes
Additionally intertextuality can be divided into another two planes. Taking in mind the Danish film theoretician John Fiske’s distinction between 'vertical' and 'horizontal' intertextuality we can segregate between different media. Horizontal intertextuality denotes references that are on the 'same level' ie.books referencing other books. This is what we have analyzed so far. However there is also vertical intertextuality, showcased when for instance a book references a film or a song or vice versa. In the language of scent this could mean a difference of olfactory medium: a fine fragrance referencing a material (manifested in the niche market most obviously, where several fragrances aim to interpret rose or vetiver or patchouli etc.), or alternatively a functional product, such as a cleaner, fabric softener or insecticide, referencing a fine fragrance of established acceptance so as to inject familiarity, a necessary constituent to generate sales.

The exercise can be blatantly obvious such as Pledge translating as "lemon" to the point of Americans instantly equating the smell of lemons themselves with cleaning products. (A company in the 1950s decided that it should be so, apparently!). Pine Sol acts on a similar plane with -of course- pine. But it can also act in a more subtle, yet memorable way. Baygon Green insecticide (and others following it) is deliberately taking a page off well-known 80s bestseller Poison by Dior and the era’s “big” rose & tuberose chypres; thus accounting for several consumers equating the commonality between the two into the “bug spray note”!
 Fabuloso functional home cleansers pick other mainstream successes as the inspiration behind their scents, as do Intim Care feminine products by Frezyderm which directly reference L’Eau d’Issey by Miyake, the purity of “water” and lotus acting as a simulacrum for hygiene. Fabric softeners with their hydrophobic musks, as well as dryer sheets, have in fact acted in reverse: their equation with cleanness in the mind of the western world consumer of the second half of the 20th century has spawned a plethora of fragrances which mimic their laundry day notes from mainstream Glow by Jennifer Lopez to exclusive Cruel Gardenia by Guerlain.

In conclusion, that Eureka moment of intellectual euphoria upon recognizing kindred spirits where one wouldn’t expect to is half the fun in being a perfume collector. We wouldn’t trade it for the world!

NB: the above article appeared in a longer format on the Sniffapalooza Magazine of 12 May 2009

My Troubles with Rose (and Overcoming Them One Step at a Time)

I admit it: It took hard work on my part to appreciate rose for what it is and to familiarize myself with the better grades of rose absolutes and fragrances that highlight this noble material. But let's take things at the top: Why did I have any trouble with rose in the first place? Bad associations is one thing: toilet freshners and dusty pot-pouri left standing for ages have not done much to make rose an appreciated note. But it went deeper than that. 

 
I had always pictured rose lovers as romantic creatures (but a specific type of it that differs from what I embrace) who love interiors dressed in ice-cream pastels, dresses with lots of chiffon and lace in pretty, feminine shades of pinks and salmons, hair up in disheveled buns, leafing through retrospectives of the New York City Ballet. They adore being offered flowers on a first date, get treated to a dinner at a posh restaurant and can watch a rom-com anytime. Their china is patterned with tiny flowers edged in gold, their jewlery is dainty, pretty and vintage girly. They cherish Jane Austin and find the money-related matrimonial wannabe woes of the heroines utterly charming. Perhaps they have been dreaming and planning their wedding ever since they knew how to talk. It recalled instant Victoriana to my mind, even if Austin's more Empire really if we're to be period-appropriate. (Call it typecasting. Call it prejudice, if you prefer, you're probably right anyway).

I am none of those above things, for better or worse: I always prefered the Bronte sisters' dark and gloom, I dress in dramatic black and white (or red!) with bold accents of jewels when the mood strikes, firmly prefer wood & baroque interiors to "pretty" things and detest frou frou in almost everything. My china bears simple platinum meanders on the edge and nothing else and I didn't have a wedding plan in my head until I actually really, really had to. I equate romanticism with gothic literature, strong passions damaging everything in sight and Chopin préludes, preferably visualising the composer coughing up a bloody storm under that damp roof in the Majorca. Not a pretty picture, eh?

So I considered it natural that roses -and rose fragrances that replicate the scent of the flower- didn't hold much appeal on me. And yet, there was definitely rose in several perfumes which I found irresistible from a young age on: Paris by Yves Saint Laurent for one, with its violet-laced delectability, making the rose powdery, soft and tender as a feather or a sweet young mother's embrace. Or et Noir by Caron is full of it. Chanel No.5 also has lots. I had been presented with rose otto from the Bulgarian valley of the roses when in elementary school (gift from a relative who visited) and was hypnotized by the lushness.
I later read all about damascones and damascenones, ingredients which give fruity nuances of apple and plum to roses and a fluorescent glow. I had smelled roses deeply and compared with the differing essence rendered which resembles liqueur or powder or sometimes wine and marvelled on the facets of artichoke peaking! Somerset Maugham had likened rose's splendor to such a poetic concept: "Beauty is an ecstasy; it is as simple as hunger. There is really nothing to be said about it. It is like the perfume of a rose: you can smell it and that is all." I had to explore more...

Of course Sommerset Maugham was English. Does this bear any relation to my quest? Plenty, as you will see.

I also always pegged rose lovers as decidedly Anglo-Saxon, you see (that Liberty style print had no doubt influenced me profoundly, as well as the expression "English rose" for pretty UK ladies), with the corresponding flaxen, auburn or chestnut hair and peaches n'cream complexion under northern lights. What could this "clean", pretty look have to do with my striking black on fair contrast under the blinding Med sun? I admired Guerlain Nahéma, which was more my speed by all accounts, but somehow it seemed too intrusive for what I considered the last bastion of mystery, perfume... I had never actually met a grown woman in my culture who was crazy for roses anyway, nor did I meet anyone else for that matter outside that group who did.

But English and American (and a few Australian) women I got to know were really bent on roses and this made me think. Long and hard. Why is it that such a difference exists? And why are several young women so averse to roses? It is indeed a prefered scent of grannies, who do have a penchant for Victoriana, one assumes because it reminds them of a glamourised time when they saw their own parents as demi-gods. How come Stella by Stella McCartney is such a popular fragrance in the 20-30 age group nevertheless? (This is the same mystery as young women theoretically not liking "powdery scents" and yet going ga-ga for Kenzo Flower or DK Cashmere Mist!) And why is D&G Rose The One targeted to young ones? Francis Kurkdjian has practically built a career upon selling roses to the young, given them his gleaming sheen trademark. Surely they should be enough interest from a significant sector in the market to guarantee houses as the Parfums de Rosine -with its illustrious historical name and its pleiad of variations on the rose- to flourish.

 Alberto Morillas gave me a partial answer to that question when he presented Valentina de Valentino, explaining why the fragrance didn't contain rose even though Valentino himself uses it as a motif a lot: "Honestly, it's not easy to make roses 'young'," he shrugged. "It's a scent often associated with older ladies and jasmine is far younger. And although you do have roses in Italy, it's not really the essence of the country."

So, two factors then: Geographical location (my juvenile hypothesis had some substance after all) and age grouping. I don't know if it's a sign of maturing on my part, as the passage of time has made my stance towards roses more elastic, or really my persistence on overcoming this hesitation; but it could be both. More than a mere matter of chronological age, it might have to do with the maturing process of realizing what one categorically rejected during their teen "angst" years and the "mapping identity" early 20s, one is more lenient on accepting later on.

Therefore apart from the "bastard" roses which I always found intriguing and beguiling despite myself, such as Voleur de Roses by L'Artisan Parfumeur, Rose d'Homme by Parfums de Rosine, Rose Poivrée by The Different Company,  Une Rose Chypree by Tauer perfumes and Epic for Women by Amouage, I began to find myself attracted to sheerer, more tender, less artsy, well, rosier(!) fragrances. After all rose can take on myriad of nuances: from soft and powdery, to childlike and tender, to green with a hint of the dew on the leaves, to nectarous and honeyed and fruity, passionate and full, all the way to dark, angular and gothic.

I discovered the Annick Goutal rose fragrances Rose Absolue, Rose Splendide and Quel Amour, the whimsical little sister to the violet-rose combo of Paris in the charming Drôle de Rose by L'Artisan Parfumeur, the stupendous Lyric by Amouage, the greener and softer nuances in Rose Barbare by Guerlain. Briar Rose by Ineke. F.Malle animalic and "femme" Une Rose. The lovely and very true to a budding rose smell Rose 4 Reines by L'Occitane. The green & citrusy grapefruit tinge of Rose Ikebana in the Hermessences.
It seems have managed to overcome my fear and trepidation (hurray!), studying and playing with this regal blossom that yields such extraordinary results.
And then I come across such a different, iconoclastic take on rose such as the spicy, intense Cinabre by Maria Candida Gentile and I realize nothing's changed really: you can't get the poésie romanesque out of the girl, even if you add some mainstream, expected romance to it.

 And what about you? Is there a perfume note or material which you have been battling with for some time? I'd love to hear your stories!

pics via sansmith/pinterest , linda edmonson/pinterest,sheisfilledwithsecrets.tumblr.com

The Nose is Never Wrong: Doubting One's Sense of Smell & Interpreting Fact into Words

The nose is never wrong. You read this right, the nose, any nose, is never wrong! Like the eye or the ear, the nose is a means to an end, a cluster of neurons transmitting factual information to the brain, where a complex
procedure is taking place into interpretating reality. We all see tiles in blue, but how many of us will describe them as cerulean, glaucous, Yale blue or azulejo? It all depends on our cultural and personal associations, our language's sophistication and our sensitivity to slight nuances. The same applies with smells. We've all heard of the limbic system, scent & pheromones, smell triggers memories, blah blah blah. How come if you take a hundred people in a room and ask them to smell the same thing you will have at least 20 different descriptors?

Because the fragrance industry has been cryptic for so long; because perfume writing and press material has been resting on familiar "structures" into communicating perfume a certain way; because sales associates have been instructed to just give out "notes" without furthering a dialogue with the potential consumer. For all these reasons, more often than not, a perfume lover is left doubting their own nose rather than contradict received knowledge. Let's illustrate our point with examples.

A common occurence is hair-tearing despair at the perfume counter when the sales assistant swears blind that the banana note you're smelling in a given perfume just isn't there. Who's right? (Probably your nose, banana is a natural facet of both jasmine sambac and ylang-ylang flowers, common ingredients in many fragrances). Another, a bit more elevated in the sophistication stakes, is arguing on the classification of a well-known perfume. Perfume enthusiasts know Dioressence by Dior is a revered classic. Some consider it an oriental; others classify it as a chypre. The same happens with Lancome's Magie Noire. What's the deal?
Oriental and chypre are two very distinct fragrance families with a different character and perceived effect: how can so many people err so much? Again, everyone's nose is on the right place, so to speak. The people who smell Dioressence and Magie Noire as oriental perfumes are smelling an older batch (or are going by received knowledge by perfume writing in books and blogs). The people who smell them as chypres are not wrong; they're smelling the leaned out, altered form of a newer reformulation, which gave a push to the direction of mossier, woodier (reminiscent correctly of chypre)! The industry is toying with us, hiding the years of reformulations unlike with wines which bear vintage year on their label, confusing us and making us doubt ourselves.

Chypre in particular is a tortured term: You see it brandished for every sophisticated blend in existence. It's perfumy, it's elegant, it's uncommon and smells like a million bucks? It must be a chypre! Not so, necessarily. There are quite a few wonderfully sophisticated and a bit green floral aldehydics, green florals and orientals with green elements out there which aren't technically chypres. Plus "nouveau chypres" (i.e. chypres technically enginered to avoid the obstacle of restricked oakmoss) are a bit different in smell anyway.
Chypre is a technical classification denoting a very specific structure and using the term is a very deliberate move on a speaker's/writer's part. We can't blanket-term using perfumery jargon! We can't use objective terms to convey subjective impressions or personal opinions. It's like bad journalism: "A fierce dog has bitten on an innocent citizen", jumbling opinion and fact, to reference Umberto Eco.

But the thing is what most people lack isn't a good grasp of scent (unless of course some medical peculiarity is present, but that's rare), but the best possible interpretative methodology into translating what they smell into a clear, coherent message. This can be down to education ~or more specifically the lack of simple & concise educational tools pertaining to olfaction. This is why we have insisted on Perfume Shrine on providing such tools through our Perfume Vocabulary posts and our Definition and Raw Materials articles, so as to facilitate the dialogue between people who wear and enjoy perfume.

Because ultimately, sharing the joy of perfume involves talking about it as well.

pic via americantransman.com

What Makes a Perfume a Classic?

What are the perfume classics and why are they classics? Do they have something in common that has made them "the classics"? What exactly makes something a classic? Like in other areas of art, there is a finite number of options.

*innovation/echoing the zeitgeist

*timeless beauty

*endurance/longevity, so that it becomes a reference point

An objet d’art should express its times (or pre-empty the future) with such tremendous force and conviction that it should be on the vanguard of an entirely new direction. This is usually done through technical and artistic innovation. For instance Coty’s Chypre [with its streamlined formula and the archetypal harmony of bergamot (a citrus) ~cistus labdanum (a sweet resin) ~oakmoss (a bitter, earthy lichen)], as well as Chanel No.5 (with its abstract impression and huge dose of synthetic aldehydes, unusual at the times) and Dior’s Eau Sauvage (a citrusy-mossy cologne for men with a floral heart of hedione, i.e.green translucent jasmine note) have paved the way for hundreds of upstarts, thus swaying the direction of perfume-making for decades. To bring a musical analogy: “The first Velvet Underground album only sold 10,000 copies, but everyone who bought it formed a band.”

Something could also be harmonious in an eternally beautiful way, pleasant to an 18th century patrician and a 21st century city-slicker alike, like a bust of Aphrodite. Like a concerto for violin by J.S Bach endures because it creates an inner sense of harmony with the universe, while a tune by Milli Vanilli is ultimately forgettable. Some fragrances possess a timeless appeal, removed from vagaries of trends. Joy by Jean Patou, predominantly built on the nectarous qualities of very expensive raw materials, the best rose and jasmine essences, is not particularly innovative, but beautiful all the same. The Jean Marie Farina Eau de Cologne formula is also such an example of timeless appeal. Simultaneously the Eau de Cologne is the mother-mould of all light, citrusy and herbal “eaux” to follow. Humans tending to find olfactory pleasurable what is familiar to them, the second criterion meets the first (innovation that gets imitated and therefore becomes familiar) and is interwoven with the third (market endurance).

Since perfume as a sold commodity has market considerations beyond the merely artistic, a perfume cannot survive the passage of time without enough people buying it in the first place. It needs a continued sustenance on the real market, and often a best-selling status as well, to establish itself as a true classic. Several of the classics we refer to as such nowadays, such as Guerlain’s Shalimar, Chanel No.5, Lanvin Arpège, Miss Dior, Nina Ricci L’Air du Temps, Lauder Youth Dew, Clinique Aromatics Elixir, YSL Opium, have been huge best-selling fragrances in their times and continue to circulate in one form or another to this day.
It doesn’t matter if Iris Gris by Jacques Fath or Nombre Noir by Shiseido might be more beautiful than L’Air du Temps (roughly contemporary with the Fath fragrance); precious few people have ever smelled the former two to establish them as a yardstick.

One thing we need to differentiate is between classic and dated: “Dated” is a fragrance that has ceased to be in dialogue with the needs and aspirations of the times. The violet and rose waters of the Victorian times now seem obsolete, simplistic and without touch with the zeitgeist. Some of the fragrances of the 1930s, like some in the Jean Patou Ma Collection perfumes series, are decidedly old-fashioned, with a retro halo. Sometimes a sense of nostalgia, or, more poignantly, the desire to nostalgize about that which we have not personally known, overwhelms the perfume lover who then explores these retro fragrances with gusto. It’s human nature: we always think the past held greater passion and glamour than it actually had.

What about YOU: What do you appreciate in a classic perfumes and what makes a perfume classic to you?

photo of Greta Garbo via planetsipul.blogspot , photo Robert Mapplethorpe and the Classical Tradition

Fragrance Choices in Relation to Character & Ambience Delineation in Novels

"He had been before in drawing rooms hung with red damask, with pictures 'of the Italian school'; what struck him was the way in which Medora Manson's shabby hired house, with its blightened background of pampas grass and Rogers statuettes, had, by a turn of the hand, and the skillful use of a few properties, been transformed into something intimate, 'foreign', subtly suggestive of old romantic scenes and sentiments. He tried to analyse the trick, to find a clue to it in the way the chairs and tables were grouped, in the fact that only two Jacqueminot roses (of which nobody ever bought less than a dozen) had been placed in the slender vase at his elbow, and in the vague pervading perfume that was not what one put on handkerchiefs, but rather like the scent of some far-off bazaar, a smell made up of Turkish coffee and ambergris and dried roses."
~Edith Wharton, The Age of Innocence

I have been re-reading Wharton's masterpiece and noticing page after page the meticulous care with which the author has created a vivid universe of that crumbling world of social conventions. I follow the eyes and thoughts of late 19th century young gentleman Newland Archer, about to marry the perfect girl of his New York circle, May Welland, but who nevertheless ~out of a rebellion of his inquisitive spirit~ ends up in a frustrated, unfulfilled love story with her cousin, the Countess Olenska; a woman who inwardly snubs conventions, but seems eternally trapped by them in a pre-arranged world of genteel suffocation. No detail has been spared by the author in delineating the mores, the customs, the rites and rituals of a disappearing world and, within it all, one of the most characteristic seems to be the one hinting at smells; such as the above passage, recounting the house in which the Countess Olenska stays, a house she has decorated herself and which reflects her rebellious, cosmopolitan and free nature.

Other fragrant details surface frequently too: May Welland receives posies of lilies of the valley daily ~ Diana-like, pure, beautiful, virginal and above board~ all through her engagement to Newland. As he shops for her bouquet he suddenly notices...

..."a cluster of yellow roses. He had never seen any as sun-golden before and his first impulse was to send them to May instead of the lilies. But they did not look like her -there was something too rich, too strong, in their fiery beauty. In a sudden revulsion of mood, and almost without knowing what he did, he signed to the florist to lay the roses in another long box, and slipped his card into a second envelope, on which he wrote the name of the Countess Olenska; then, just as he was turning away, he drew the card out again, and left the empty envelope on the box".

Such small details can create a whole scene! The lily of the valley stands as the symbol of the virgin bride who is spotless and seems frail, yet surfaces triumphant in the conventional approach to marriage she seeks in the end, much like the aroma of the tiny blossom is piercingly sweet and surpasses most others. The sun-yellow rose is more mature, more feminine in a retro, "full" way, symbolising the giving and open nature of Ellen Olenska, its delicate scent a crumbling beauty that is trampled by those whose trail travels farthest.

Perfume mentions in novels, whether by general description or by specific brand names is not new, but it always strikes me as poignant and significant in setting the mood and tone of the literary work at hand. Indeed, there are books in which it sets the very plot, like obvious paradigm Das Parfum by Patrick Süskind, À Rebours (Against the Grain) by J.K. Huysmans or Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins. Then, they are those which use perfume references creatively, like The Petty Demon (Melkiy Bes) by Fyodor Sologub, chronicling Peredonov's ambition to rise from instructor to rural gymnasium to school inspector as well as the erotic dalliance between Sasha Pulnivok and Lyudmilla Rutilova.
Take White Oleander by Janet Finch as well, where every character signals a hidden side of them by their choice of fragrance: The biological mom looks stealthy if deliquent, but smells of shy, tender violets. The foster mom with the suicidal tendencies chooses L'Air du Temps, fusing her frail personality with the graceful and assured arc of the Nina Ricci's classic. The upscale hooker down the road wears steely and classy chypre Ma Griffe by Carven. Even the fragrant gift of the promiscuous neighbour to the girl heroine, Penhaligon's Love Potion No.9, is a plea and realisation for what the protagonist needs most: approval.

In Nancy Mitford's The Pursuit of Love the protagonist's wearing of Guerlain's classic Après l'Ondée elicits favourable reception. In Joanne Harris's Chocolat the depiction of all the village women wearing Chanel No.5, till the arrival of the trail blaizer heroine, is akin to a red flag of conventions-adoring set to be shred to pieces. In Dodie Smith's I Capture the Castle the scent that permeates the romantic atmosphere is Penhaligon's Bluebell; as British as you can get.
Sometimes scent in novels can even become an idée fixe:

"...and I could see Maxim standing at the foot of the stairs, laughing, shaking hands, turning to someone who stood by his side, tall and slim, with dark hair, said the bishop's wife, dark hair against a white face, someone whose quick eyes saw to the comfort of her guests, who gave an order over her shoulder to a servant, someone who was never awkward, never without grace, who when she danced left a stab of perfume in the air like a white azalea."

Thus writes Daphne du Maurier in Rebecca and continues:

"And then I knew that the vanished scent upon the handkerchief was the same as the crushed white petals of the azaleas in the Happy Valley." Or "The wardrobe smelt stuffy, queer. The azalea scent, so fragrant and delicate in the air, had turned stale in the wardrobe, tarnishing the silver dresses and the brocade, and the breath of it wafted toward me now from the open doors, faded and old."

And who can forget literary giant Honoré de Balzac when he describes down to the filthy detail and to the last minutiae the places where his heroes live and work in Père Goriot?

Fragrance references and scented descriptions add a whole different sublayer to a novel's charm and sometimes worth, by injecting it with a subtle nuance like nothing else. Simply put, the novel would be incomplete without referring that sense which makes up for so many of our memories, sentiments, preconceptions and aversions.


What about you? Do you enjoy fragrance references in novels or do they distract you? And which are your favourites? Share them in the comments.